


this is not a movie

by NiciJones



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Napoleon Solo is not good at dealing with feelings, follow up of torture, wounds and bruises and hospitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 13:21:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11715222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiciJones/pseuds/NiciJones
Summary: If this would be a movie, Napoleon would walk out of here like nothing had happened. He would have bruises but he wouldn’t mind them. He would go with Illya, save Gaby and the day.Unfortunately, this isn’t a movie.Canon divergence from the point when Illya rescues Napoleon from Rudi's clutches.





	this is not a movie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [el3anorrigby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/gifts).



> Christ, this took forever. I started it way back in May as a gift to a sick el3anorrigby and only now got around to finishing it. Also, it kinda blew out of proportion. I hope, it's not too dramatic. *sweats*

If this would be a movie, Napoleon would walk out of here like nothing had happened. He would have bruises but he wouldn’t mind them. He would go with Illya, save Gaby and the day.

Unfortunately, this isn’t a movie. So when Illya loosens the straps tying him down he wheezes and clenches his hands into fists. Illya doesn’t say a word until he had freed him completely. Napoleon forces himself to stand up. Just to get away from that chair. His legs disobey him for a moment and he stumbles.  
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” He insists as he sees Illya reach for him.  
The Russian agent furrows his brows but turns to Rudi instead. While he pushes the man down and starts to tie him up Napoleon takes a moment to breathe. Leaning against the desk he tries to steady his heartbeat and stop his hands from shaking.  
He is surprised and relieved when it works. Back to business. 

He interrogates Rudi with Illya seeing the Russian bristle with anger. Part of it is directed at Gaby, of course, but Napoleon is surprised to notice some of it directed at Rudi. Because, for some reason, Illya cares about him and is angry at what Napoleon had to endure. Napoleon’s heart makes a dance to an unsteady rhythm and he has to take a deep breath and press a hand to his chest.  
“Illya, a word please.” They go outside and discuss the fate of Rudi. 

But then the room lights on fire and Napoleon hides his relief.  
“We need to get Gaby,” he states.  
“I agree. Come.” Illya pulls his gun out and leads the way. Napoleon follows him ignoring the black dots dancing over his vision. Adrenaline is leaving him and the true effects of Rudi’s torture become obvious.  
When Illya dashes around the corner Napoleon wants to follow him but his feet disobey and when he wants to catch himself his hands wouldn’t cooperate either and he just falls over like a dead body. There is a sharp pain in his forehead and everything goes dark around him. Distinctly, he realises he should’ve called Illya. Somehow tell him he’s unable to catch up or watch his back. 

When he wakes up he stares at the ceiling of a truck. His whole body is aching and he can still feel the straps on his skin and the tingling of electricity. He has to touch the burns to feel this is his skin, not the leather and wires holding him down. Only then he becomes aware of the loud voices outside.  
“He’s severally injured! His wounds have to be treated. We have played your game long enough. You got Gaby in trouble. Get her out of it! I believe the MI6 must have some good agents as well. We are not participating in this anymore.”  
Illya. This was Illya. Why did the MI6 get Gaby in trouble? Which game did they play?  
“I am sorry you were caught up in this, agent Kuryakin. I understand you are angry for personal reasons…” A smooth and somehow familiar British accent told Illya.  
“Personal reasons?!” He heard the Russian yell.  
Inside the truck, Napoleon has put the pieces together. They should’ve known, really. Now Napoleon should probably also do something before Illya kills Gaby’s handler.  
“Illya…,” he croaks out weaker than he had intended and pushes himself up on his forearms. How long had he been out of it?  
“Cowboy?” It’s beyond Napoleon how he could’ve heard him but at least he serves successfully in breaking up the argument. The tall Russian enters the truck.  
“Gaby works for MI6?” He asks.  
“Da.” Illya nods and crouches next to the backseat.  
“Must hurt to see a fellow comrade turn to the dark side,” he jokes like he always does.  
Illya’s mouth twitches. “She was never especially loyal. They will get her out but you need to go into hospital.”  
Napoleon still doesn’t know how to deal with the concern on his face. “What? No! I’m fine. Of course, I’m fine. Just a couple of burns…” His heart betrays him as it falters and then races away. Instinctively, Napoleon touches his chest as if it would calm the traitorous muscle.  
“No, Cowboy. We go to hospital. MI6 will take care of Gaby.”  
The tape. Napoleon had to get the tape… Sanders would…  
“Rest, Cowboy.” Illya presses him down to lie on the row of seats again. The fact that Napoleon doesn’t fight him is telling about his condition.

Illya and Waverly argue some more until the Russian agrees to let an MI6 medic team take a look at him. Obviously, no one consults Napoleon. They give him medicine against the pain and ointment for the bruises. When he tells them about the weakness in his hands and feet they wear a concerned look making Napoleon feel worried. He fights to stay awake the matter of the tape and Sander’s punishment still looming over him but he loses.

When he wakes up it’s dark in the room except for street lights illuminating the room from the windows and Napoleon doesn’t know where he is. He sits up and sees light in what seems to be a kitchen. Napoleon gets up and walks over tentatively putting one foot in front of the other. Leaning in the doorway, he watches as Illya cleans his gun. The knives had already undergone that treatment apparently.  
“Gaby is okay.” Illya states not looking up from his activity.  
“Good.” _The tape..._  
“All tapes were destroyed,” Illya explains as if he had heard his thoughts.  
Napoleon clenches his hands into fists. That wouldn’t stop Sanders... “Where are we?” He asks instead.  
“Safehouse.” Now Illya does stand up now and walks closer. “KGB safe house. So maybe don’t talk about it.”  
Napoleon blinks surprised. He’s still amazed by the amount of trust the Russian put into him. Him who prides himself to be unreadable and play everyone to his own benefit. Somehow, the Russian seems to think it was okay to trust him. How is unknowable to Napoleon.  
“You should sleep. We meet with Waverly and Gaby tomorrow,” Illya says but something seems off about him.  
Napoleon feels his blood pressure skyrocket. “Illya, what is wrong?” He asks teeth clenching at the turmoil in his chest.  
Illya avoids meeting his eyes.  
“Illya.” He isn’t able to keep the fear out of his voice anymore. Normally, he would mask his emotions but this isn’t happening right now. Not after Illya rescued him for no reason at all, not after he refused to leave him with the medic team, not after he had taken him to a KGB safe house. He needs to know what Illya isn’t telling him and right now it is the best way to get the information out of him.  
“The medics talked to me,” Illya says slowly.  
“And? Illya, why didn’t they tell me?!” Napoleon asks and steps closer grabbing Illya’s shoulders. “Talk to me!”  
“You are feeling weakness in hands and feet, yes? Your blood pressure skyrockets easily or just without reason. Napoleon, this isn’t curable. You can take pills to lessen the effects somewhat but- no one is going to send you into field again.” He explains softly.  
Napoleon stumbles back surprised. “Oh.” Sanders would. He would punish him and then send him back. It just means it would get harder for Napoleon. He huffs out a dry laugh. “You don’t know Sanders.”  
Illya frowns. “A good handler knows when a spy can’t go on. When it is not worth putting his life in danger.”  
“Sanders is not my handler. This is never how it was. Think of him more like… More like a prison guard or a blackmailer.” And why was he so damn honest with Illya?  
“Then you are not going back to him.” Illya says like it is that easy. Like Napoleon hadn’t thought about it a hundred times before.  
“And how do you think this is going to work?” Napoleon snaps. Yes, he snaps. His usually sleek and calm demeanour is destroyed. Here he is with the KGB agent who trusts and cares far too much for him and he is telling him he would never have to go back to Sanders.  
“Simple. I will threaten Waverly into getting you out. The man seemed powerful.” Illya explains and crosses his arms.  
“Who do you-” Napoleon’s chest tightens and he is unable to breathe. Panicked, he clutches at his shirt pulling at it frantically like it would bring the air back into his lungs. He feels his legs give out under him and realises this would be it. Those attacks will never end. At any given moment they could overwhelm him and tears spring to Napoleon’s eyes. He is not going to cry. He hasn’t cried in years and certainly not in front of anyone else. He is not going to cry in front of Illya!  
But before he can stop it, he is sitting on the floor of the kitchen not even really crying because he is still desperately trying to get more air into his lungs. It is _pathetic_. And Napoleon Solo _hates_ being pathetic.  
“Cowboy… Napoleon! Calm down. It is going to be okay. I promise. I promise I will make it right.”  
Napoleon blinks and sees the tall Russian crouch in front of him… _again_. And he is wearing that concerned look on his face… _again_. “Only my mother- calls me Napoleon.” He repeats drily what he had told Victoria.  
“This is not a joke, Cowboy. You need to calm down. Breathe slowly.” Illya’s brows are still furrowed with worry. _Of fucking course._ It reminds Napoleon of the war. The young boys stumbling through the mud with guns too big for their bodies and heart raw from all the pain they had to endure they weren’t ready for. He had been one of those boys and now he sees the look on Illya’s face. His eyes wide with fear, mouth set in a stubborn, unaccepting line. Maybe Napoleon should die here. It would be good. To know someone actually cared.  
“No. You are not giving up, you bastard!” Illya threatens and it is kind of endearing. He takes Napoleon’s hands and presses them on his chest. “Breath with me, you insufferable American.”  
Somehow being insulted by someone who is trying to save his life works for Napoleon. He looks up into the blue, blue eyes of the Russian while their breaths even out together. Napoleon’s heartbeat calms as well and he takes a deep breath. “I think I’m done for today.” He says weakly and sees Illya nod.

Napoleon doesn’t allow Illya to carry him back to bed. However, he accepts him as a human crutch. He also insists to undress himself until he is wearing nothing but his boxers. It would be more comfortable to sleep in them. But he is too tired to complain when Illya pulls the blanket over him and turns off the lights. Leaving the room with the sound of the slight creak of the wooden floor. The door stays open. Completely exhausted, Napoleon falls asleep right away.

He wakes up in the middle of the night screaming. He is still trying to make out where he is when he sees a tall figure approach. Instinctively, he reaches under his pillow for his gun but there is just a knife. Odd but he would take what he got.  
“Cowboy.” The lights are turned on and for a moment they are blinding. Napoleon blinks remembering where he is and who he’s with. Ashamed, he lets the knife clatter to the floor which is even more embarrassing so he picks it up and puts it back.  
“Just a nightmare, Peril. Don’t worry about me.” He assures the Russian nonetheless he can still feel his heart beating in his throat and hear Rudi’s voice in his ears. He is more than awake and going back to sleep seems out of question. “How long have I been asleep?” He asks running a hand through his hair that's curling now without the contents to hold it down.  
“About an hour. You should get back to sleep,” Illya states and he still looks so worried it’s making Napoleon sick.  
“Stop looking like that,” he points out.  
It makes Illya frown and recoil and somehow this is even worse. “I don’t know what you are talking about!”  
“You look like a kicked puppy. Like someone stepped on your favourite toy. I am not your favourite toy!” He explodes and it must be the lack of sleep to cause such a lack of sanity.  
“Napoleon-” Illya starts but is cut short.  
“Don’t call me Napoleon!” The American yells. They are both bristling with anger now.  
“You stupid American! I do this because I care about you. I can see that you need someone to look out for you. You wear a mask for everyone but you always made it easy for me to read you. I don’t know why but I thought this was your invitation. Apparently, I misunderstood!” Illya growls and turns away leaving the room swiftly.  
“Illya! Wait! You are not leaving me here without giving me the chance to answer you!” But obviously, this is exactly what the Russian is doing.

Napoleon gets up and paces the flat. Illya had taken his cap and jacket and just left. He has no idea where he could have gone so it would be stupid to run after him when he is bound to come back eventually.  
He ends up having a couple of drinks. He is aware that it is most likely a stupid idea with all the medicine they pumped into him but it makes him more relaxed. The chair in the kitchen seems softer and more comfortable than just a drink before and Napoleon rests his head on the tabletop. Just closing his eyes for a tiny moment…

He wakes when someone is shaking him. No, it’s just his shoulder. But still… He blinks up at the intruder.  
“You can’t sleep at the kitchen table, Cowboy.” Illya says fondly exasperated. The softness in his eyes is back and this time Napoleon allows himself to be contended by it.  
“I can. You see it right in front of your eyes.” He points out with a slur and squints at Illya’s face. Something was wrong with it.  
“You drank. I could tell you it is not good with medicine but you probably know.” Illya sighs. “Time to go back to bed.”  
Suddenly, Napoleon realises what is wrong with Illya’s face. There’s blood on it! “Illya… What happened?” And he reaches out to touch like some lovesick teenager.  
“Nothing. We are safe here.” Illya hauls him from the chair and guides him safely back into the bedroom.  
“What do you mean we are safe here?” Napoleon slurs and hates he can’t be taken seriously like this. “You need to clean this up. He extends his hand again but this time he isn’t sitting down and even though Illya is taller than him he can easily enough reach his face. When his fingers make contact with one of the bruises Illya flinches. A little motion that seemed more like he wanted to shake off an annoying fly.  
“You got into a fight.” Napoleon states as Illya pushes him down on the bed and starts to rearrange pillows and blanket. Illya doesn’t say anything. It is rather obvious after all. “It could be some of Vinciguerra’s people but I doubt that. They were Russians, right? They saw you bring me, an American, an enemy, here and they confronted you about it.” Illya’s tight lipped expression tells him everything he needs to know.  
“Sleep, Napoleon.” Illya says.  
“Stop calling me Napoleon,” he grumbles and closes his eyes but not without catching the slight smile on the Russian’s lips.

Later, he feels the bed dip next to him and blinks sleepily.  
“Go back to sleep. You are safe now.” He hears the familiar voice repeat and he obeys. Illya was here. Right beside him. No one would come close enough to hurt him for now.

The next day starts slowly. Napoleon blinks his eyes open blinded by the sun. His body was still aching but the rest had relaxed him somewhat. He turns and is surprised to see Illya snoring next to him. Where Napoleon curls up into a ball during sleep the Russian lies straight and stiff. More relaxed now though, head turned to one side and hand resting close to his face.  
It is ridiculous how vulnerable he looks, Napoleon thinks. He can’t bear how easy it is and how domestic to lie next to each in the morning. That's why he reaches out and shakes Illya. He's warm where the blanket had covered him. “Wake up, Peril.” He murmurs.  
As any good agent, he's awake in a second aware of his surroundings and one hand curled around the knife under his pillow.  
“Easy, comrade.” Napoleon soothes him. He can read in his face he's surprised to have slept this long. His hair is ruffled and there is a pattern of creases on his cheek from the fabric of the pillow. Napoleon hates how it warms his heart. “Time to get up. I’m sure Gaby and Waverly are already waiting for us.” He points out and sits up.  
“What time is it?” Illya asks and does the same.  
Napoleon squints at the clock on the nightstand. “Half past nine,” he states and looks back at Illya who has stood up and is stretching in the sun. The pattern of scars moves as he rolls his shoulders.  
“Then we better get going,” Illya states and walks over to the closet. It is filled with practical clothes like Illya likes to wear them and which Napoleon finds absolutely unfashionable. “We are supposed to meet at lunch.”  
“I need a shower,” Napoleon states and patted over to the bathroom.  
“I will prepare a little breakfast. It is not good to go without food,” Illya explains and vanishes into the kitchen. 

Napoleon isn’t happy about it but he has to dress into a turtleneck and a plain pair of trousers. When he walks into the kitchen Illya is standing at the oven making scrambled eggs in nothing but his boxers. He is only standing on one foot, the other is slightly resting on top of the other. Probably to avoid the coldness of the floor.  
Napoleon hadn’t signed up for this. When he went to Berlin he had expected a mission like any other. He hadn’t expected to form a friendship that deep and meaningful. He was a loner that was better off like this. He had always pushed everyone away. How had Illya managed to get under his skin so easily?  
“You can go shower now,” Napoleon tells him. “I’ll take over the breakfast.”  
Illya nods and vanishes.

They have breakfast in silence before heading out to meet Waverly and Gaby. A taxi is supposed to bring them to the Colosseum where they would meet and then go to have lunch together.  
Napoleon looks out of the window and thinks that he will never forget Rome. No matter if he is going back to Sanders, taken out of service or whatever else might be decided today or in the future. He would never forget Rome, he confirms mentally and sneaks a look over at Illya.

“Agents.” Waverly greets them with a nod and a firm handshake. Gaby is behind him and Napoleon wonders slightly bitterly if Illya’s attention had already been captured by her again. Just by standing there with a nasty scratch on one cheek and looking so goddamn innocent and guilty. Somehow Napoleon wants to be angry at her but knows at the same time that he can’t. Gaby did her job. And it isn’t her job to care for them. It isn’t Napoleon’s or Illya’s either. He turns slightly to look at his Russian friend and finds him looking at him. Except somehow they are caring about each other. He decides not to speak about it.  
“Gaby. Glad to have you back,” he says smoothly and extends his hand.  
“Oh my God, Napoleon. I am so sorry,” she pleads and ignores his hand to wrap him in a tight hug. Napoleon wasn’t expecting this but finds he needs it. He lets out a breath he hasn’t realised he is holding and hugs her back. They step apart after awhile and Napoleon smoothes an easy smile back on his lips.  
“There is nothing to apologise for. I have 6 feet and 5 inches of tall and protective Russian watching over me. There was never a reason to worry.” He winks but remembers at the same time how he had accepted that his life was ending as he sat on that chair. His heart starts fluttering and he turns away discreetly. His hand is going numb again and he rubs it idly.  
Illya is hesitant in his way of approaching Gaby. Napoleon can see he wants to ask about the bruise on her cheek but is still angry at her. If it was just the betrayal or also what happened to Napoleon he couldn’t tell. He doesn’t dare to assume. He knows Illya would come around to it eventually.

They walk to a restaurant mostly in silence or chit-chatting about nonsense until Waverly turns to Napoleon.  
“I’ve heard about your problem, Mr Solo,” he says like he was talking about the weather report. Napoleon doesn’t like the word _problem_ but Sanders hadn’t liked it when he pointed out inaccuracies perhaps Waverly wasn’t keen of that either. If the man had the power to get him out he should better not anger him.  
“I was able to strike up an agreement with your handler. And agent Kuryakin’s handler as well for that matter,” Waverly starts to explain.  
Napoleon perks up. He is keen to hear what the British man has to say.  
Napoleon hears a shout, possibly from Illya, before bullets wheeze by his head and he is ducking, scrambling for cover in a nearby doorway. His heart is beating too fast and he rubs his hands to stop the tingling. A look around the corner and he sees a group of men taking Illya’s unconscious body. He wants to reach for his gun but it isn’t there! He forgot it! How could he forget his gun!  
He hears steps approaching and looks around frantically for some kind of weapon but there was none. The man stops in front of him and Napoleon tries to decide what he will be doing. But no violent action came.  
“Message from Victoria: You ashamed her and in return, she will kill everyone you love. Goodbye, Mr Solo.” The voice was muffled thanks to the black mask but he could clearly make out it was that of a woman. Not that the information is going to help him. He sees a gun coming closer before the world goes black around him.

“Napoleon!” Gaby. That was Gaby. But Illya… There was something… They had taken Illya! Napoleon found back into reality very suddenly. He reaches for Gaby’s arm in panic.  
“They have Illya! Gaby, Victoria wants to kill Illya!” He screams at her.  
“Napoleon, hush. Calm down. Please. We can’t do anything for him at the moment,” she begs.  
“We have to! Gaby, they want to kill him because of me!” It is not the fact that people want to kill Illya because surely a KGB agent has more than enough enemies. Recently, Napoleon wouldn’t have reacted differently.But Illya getting killed because of him… he couldn’t bear it. If Illya wasn’t there to make him breakfast in the mornings and tuck him into bed in the evenings but Napoleon would be there knowing what he lost…  
“Are you sure it was Victoria?” She asked.  
“Yes. It is her revenge because she trusted me but I betrayed her,” Napoleon explained.  
“You can’t. You know you can’t. You aren’t fit for duty anymore. Rudi has…” She tries to explain.  
“I don’t care. Then let this be my last mission.” He begs.  
Gaby sighs. “Where do you think they are?” She asks.  
“Let’s start in the bunker they had me caged up in.” Napoleon decides and lets Gaby help him up.

“This is too easy,” Gaby whispers. They can see the guards in front of the door. Napoleon flinches at every scream from Illya they could hear.  
“It could be a trap,” Gaby points out.  
It is most certainly a trap, Napoleon thought. He had hoped this would be their goal. To bring him here and make him suffer. He had chosen to come here in the hope of trading his life for Illya’s.  
Before Gaby could complain Napoleon marched in. He doesn’t have a plan. To blame is probably the panic and the realisation that Illya can’t die here. Napoleon can’t allow this to happen.  
So he goes in with his gun raised and shoots two guards in the head.  
Only then he notices Illya hanging shirtless and covered in blood on a chain from the ceiling. “Illya.” He breathes out in disbelief. And he's so still. So still and motionless it makes Napoleon’s lungs clench in fear. _Please no. No. No. Illya._  
There's the sound of a gun going off and Napoleon falls to the ground.  
“Napoleon!” It's Gaby’s scream, he realises faintly. No, she is supposed to stay where she was! She would only be pulled into danger as well. Why is nothing going as he'd planned? Maybe because he hadn't planned anything and just run in like some senseless… he doesn't have the power to find an appropriate word. He grunts because there is a throbbing pain in his leg as Gaby turns him around. The voices around him are slightly muffled.  
“I had hoped you would come, Napoleon.” He would recognise this crystal clear voice everywhere. Victoria. He blinks and sees she and Gaby have their guns trained on each other. And Illya is still just hanging there.  
He forces his head to clear. “I had hoped you wanted this. Give Illya to Gaby and you can have me.” He offers. And really what happened to “I work better alone”?  
Gaby gasps. “No. You're not conscious. Shut up.” She urges him.  
“No. This is what I'm offering. You've done enough to Illya. He's suffered in my stead enough. Let me take his place.” He pleads.  
Victoria laughs clear and loud. “Now, why should I do that?” She asks rhetorically. “You even brought me your little Gaby. How could I resist taking you all?” She mocked.  
“She's not supposed to be here!!” Napoleon shouts pain forgotten as adrenaline floods his system. He has to save them!  
“Don't shout, pretty boy. Desperation doesn't look good on your face.” She teases. “Fine. I'm gracious. One of them can go. Choose one of them to live.” She orders.  
Of course, it's that moment Illya comes back alive. The chains make an unhealthy sound as he lifts his head. His eyes widen as he sees Napoleon. But the American only shakes his head in a way that he hopes is reassuring.  
He calculates in his head back and forth. Gaby would be quicker to get help but… Illya would stand this torture much longer. Not long enough probably. “Illya.” He croaks out. “Let Illya go, please.”  
“Does the little American really care that much about his tall Russian?” Her eyes are gleaming in triumph and it terrifies Napoleon. Before anyone can react she pulls the trigger and Gaby falls to the floor. _Dead…?_  
“No!!” Napoleon shouts and hears the chain rustle.  
“Well if our darling Russian here is so important to you… I won't waste the opportunity to hurt you worse than you can imagine.” She grins and grabs Gaby’s gun securing it along with her own. Napoleon curses internally. Then she walks over and Napoleon’s eyes widen as he begins to realise what she wants to do… _a brandmark._  
Napoleon reaches for the edge of the table and pulls himself up. He has to stop her. Without any idea how, and no clear head to think about it, he limbs over to Illya and clings to him carefully. “You are not getting him. Not him.” He declares. “I've lived one too many lies. I want the only real thing I've had in ages be taken away by someone like you.”  
Napoleon should never find out if his strategy had worked because in this moment a troop of the MI6 storms the bunker and shoots Victoria.  
Napoleon clings a little tighter to Illya and cries in relief. He doesn't remember much of what happened then. Flashes of medics taking him away from Illya for his own examination. His own shouts shooing them away. Illya needed them more than he ever could. 

Consciousness meets him in a hospital room. There's a heart monitor attached to him. The constant beeping makes Napoleon crazy. _Illya. Gaby._ He had to find him. What were they thinking not putting him in a room with them?! Anger wells up inside of him and he rips off the patches attached to his chest. He doesn’t even complain about the naked spots they leave on his chest. He gets up and notices the cast on his leg. Were they trying to tie him up? He couldn’t possibly rest unless he knew Gaby and Illya were alive and treated well. Later there would be time to examine why caring about the two of them so much is such a bad idea.  
He stumbles into the hallway. Outside sees nurses but ignores them. He would deal with them later. But he would need one of them to find Illya and Gaby.  
“Where are they?!” He yells.  
“I’m sorry, Sir, but I am sure you should go back-” The nurse says hesitatingly.  
“Listen, usually I am very charming and would sit down to talk with you but I’ve been shot in the leg and I have no idea whether my partner is still alive or not! So if you help me now I promise I will make it up to you. But I am in a bit of a hurry right now.” He urges her.  
“I am sorry, Sir. Could you tell me the name of your partner?”  
“Partners. Illya Kuryakin and Gaby Teller.” He answers swiftly.  
“Follow me.” She instructs and they walk to her office. Napoleon has black dots dancing over his vision whenever he moves his leg the wrong way. She searches in her files before nodding and pushing a pair of crutches in his hands. “Use these. I know where they are.”  
“How are they?” Napoleon questions urgently as he takes the crutches and thinks he shouldn’t be familiar with how to handle them.  
“Mrs Teller’s shot wound was close to being lethal and it was luck that the medics were able to save her. But we got rid of the bullet and stitched her up. She is still suffering from the effects of the blood loss and fever. Mr Kuryakin has been tortured over a longer amount of time with a brutal method. His wounds were nasty and he was suffering from great exhaustion. His arm is broken but will heal. Just as your leg will for that matter if you actually care to give a damn about it.” She points out with raised eyebrows.  
Napoleon shrugs. He’s surprised at how easily and willingly she answers his questions. He doesn’t dare to ask though in case she changed her opinion.  
“I am used to dealing with worried agents who fear for their partners. Don’t worry I know you will hardly obey any instructions unless you are sure your partners are alive and well.” She explains. Apparently, she isn’t lying.  
“Why didn’t you put us in one room then, though?” He asks trying to contain his anger.  
“Usually, it becomes uncomfortable for agents in hindsight how much they worried. I have to say I often compare them to divorced couples. They still care for each other as deeply as before but they are embarrassed and ashamed by it at the same time.” She explains and Napoleon has to admit she might be right.

They visit Gaby first. She scowls at him and Napoleon thinks she might be trying to tell him that she is angry at him for such a stupid action. Napoleon feels guilty for her injury but he has to see Illya now. He squeezes her hand as a goodbye before turning back to the nurse.  
“I’d like to see Mr Kuryakin now, please.” He inquires and follows her with a quickly and slightly irregular beating heart.

Illya looks scary. Scary in a completely new way. He was attached to tubes and monitors. Machines were beeping and buzzing. Napoleon grows strangely quiet. The nurse and he exchange a quick glance. She doesn’t say anything and just leaves him to sit at the bedside.  
Napoleon reaches out for Illya’s hand but stops himself. His eyes dance down the damaged body. Illya looks pale and the dressing gown of the hospital gown doesn’t make it better at all. Illya is even too tall for this blanket and his feet stick out. Napoleon moves with a huff and carefully covers them again. The visibly moving rib cage calmed him just like the regular beeping of the machines. The red of the bruises stand out horribly and makes Napoleon ache with guilt. Illya’s face that is usually so serious looks like someone painted him with red and blue colours. Napoleon reaches out and carefully touches his jawline. A spot that has survived the beatings.  
It comes to Napoleon Illya could be back to Russia by now visiting his мама. Instead, he’s here, closer to death than to life and it’s all because of stupid, stupid Napoleon that was too damn vulnerable and made Illya feel like he needs to be protected, that he would have a place by his side maybe…  
His heart does a dance in his chest but it’s not the good kind. He coughs trying to breathe and clutches at his hospital gown. When he can look up again he does place his fingers lightly over Illya’s bandaged ones. “Illya,” he mutters pleadingly as he curls his upper body on the edge of the bed and slowly slips back into sleep. 

He’s woken by a stern looking nurse that apparently wants to check on Illya.  
“Mr Solo, are you aware that there are a special room and bed assigned only to yourself?” She says clearly upset.  
“I am not stupid.” He mumbles and sits up slowly with a groan eyes flicking over to Illya. He still looks the same. _Like he’s dead._ He shakes the thought away. _No, no. He’s not dead! Shut up!_  
“Have you ever thought about what he would say?” She asks. “Do you think he would appreciate it? How it slows your healing process and helps him none at all?” Her look is piercing before she turns back to her patient at hand and pulls the blanket down. She knows better than to ask him to leave for the sake of Illya’s privacy. There many agents coming here and working together in a profession like this brings a certain intimacy with it. When she opens the dressing gown to reveal the bandages around his rib cage Napoleon swallows and looks away. His hand flickers forward again urged to take Illya’s hand and make sure he knows he’s not alone in his pain.  
“He’d do the same.” He says instead, quietly.  
“And I’d tell him the same thing.” She replies peeling the bandage away.  
Napoleon looks down on the white linens.  
“Goodness, you are a having it bad.” She sighs and Napoleon gulps hates that he is so obvious but not being able to help it either. The nurse finishes her job quietly then and leaves. Napoleon stays.

He’d visit Gaby from time to time. She was willing to speak to him again and starts by giving him a thorough scolding and worries all the more when Napoleon doesn’t talk back. They have idle conversations and Gaby tries to find out more about what happened between Napoleon and Illya and what might eventually happen in the future. It’s awkward and makes Napoleon’s heart ache.

The day comes that he walks back from the cafeteria where he’s made a habit of eating and Illya’s awake. His blue eyes blink tiredly but he’s awake. And that’s all that counts at the moment. Napoleon feels guilty again for not being there when he woke up.  
“Cowboy…” He croaks and makes a face. It must still hurt him to talk and move his jaw.  
“No, no, shush.” Napoleon interrupts him right away. “Don’t talk.” Illya gives him a glare and he realises he must think he’s being his usual bossy self and suddenly feels embarrassed and fumbles and he’s everything but Napoleon Solo. “It’s- not good.” He presses out. “Has a nurse been here?” He asks instead before it gets worse.  
Illya nods slightly but his forehead is wrinkled in worry and Napoleon wants to slap him for it. He’s the one lying badly wounded in the bed and dares to look at Napoleon like _he’s_ the one who needs to be worried about. Right, that’s what Peril brought here in the first place.  
“Illya, we need to talk about this whole…” He gestures towards Illya’s concerned face. “Worrying thing.” He sighs and sits on the chair still in position next to Illya’s bed. “You need to stop. I am not in need of your help. I am a fully functioning CIA agent.” He explains.  
“You are not,” Illya croaks and means the numbness in Napoleon’s hand and his stuttering heart.  
“It’s none of your concern anyway!” Napoleon says agitated and stands up again but flinches when he moves his leg too quickly.  
Illya cocks his head and says the worst thing possible, “I trust you.”  
Napoleon covers his face with his hands and screams. With still agitated breath he turns to Illya. “That’s the goddamn problem. Can’t you see? It’s fucking 1963! It’s not the time for a Russian spy and American agent to trust each other!”  
Illya looks stubborn and it makes Napoleon even angrier.  
“Waverly-” Illya starts but gets cut off by Napoleon again.  
“Waverly is not our fucking saviour! Do you really think he is able to get us out? KGB’s best and CIA’s finest relieved from duty _just like that_ because an old Brit tells them so!” He takes a shaky breath when he hears the disapproving tsk behind him. He spins around.  
“I am disappointed you think so little of me, Mr Solo.” Waverly says. He’s standing in the doorway with Gaby at his arm and for a moment Napoleon is distracted by how brightly she smiles up at Waverly. “I got interrupted rather rudely back there. Because sometimes stubborn handlers, no matter which origin, listen to old Brits like me.” He explains. “I can offer you a place in the new organisation called UNCLE. Only if you want to of course. All three of you.”  
Gaby makes her way over to Illya to greet him properly with a peck on the cheek. He hisses slightly and she smiles apologetically. “I already agreed. So when do we start?”  
Napoleon looks from one to another until he storms outside. Well, his best impression of storming while he still leans on crutches.

He steals a pair of cigarettes and smokes one after the other on the balcony. The wind is cold and ruffles his curls. He hasn’t bothered to rule them in since they arrived here. Since Rudi actually. Just like his stubble has been growing ever since.  
The door opens with a creak and a wheelchair joins him. Napoleon clears his throat and looks away.  
“Cowboy.” It’s Illya. Of course.  
He does look now. Illya looks oversized for the wheelchair and goddamn miserable. “You should be in bed.”  
“So should you. Your leg is having hard time.” Illya says.  
_“Fuck my leg!”_ Napoleon curses. He throws the cigarette from the balcony. He can’t even smoke in peace. It starts to rain.  
Illya stays and stares. Why does he know what to do to make Napoleon comply? “You’re freezing. Let’s go inside.” _Should it be this simple? Was it really this easy? Should he even question it?_  
Napoleon wheels Illya back to his room. The machines have been rolled away which Napoleon is thankful for. He tries to help Illya into bed without putting weight on his leg. It’s painful in messy but in the end, they are both lying on the bed. Breathless and gulping down the pain.  
“Why are you angry?” Illya mumbles finally.  
Napoleon sighs. “I don’t know. It’s stupid. I don’t want to talk about it.” He excuses himself.  
“It’s not-” Illya has to stop because he breaks out into a coughing fit.  
Worried Napoleon grabs the water from the nightstand. He contemplates how to best do this for a moment before he gently cups Illya’s skull and tips the glass against his lips.  
Illya calms, drinks and lies back down. “Thank you. It’s not stupid if it concerns you, Cowboy.”  
Maybe he should’ve let him cough his lungs out, Napoleon thinks grimly but doesn’t mean it.  
“Would it really be so terrible to leave CIA? You told me Sanders is asshole, no?” He asks.  
Napoleon grits his teeth. “No, Peril. No, it wouldn’t terrible at all.” He sighs.  
“What then?” Illya pushes further.  
“It’s too easy and- too good,” Napoleon admits quietly. “I never planned for this when I came to Berlin.” He whispers.  
“Neither did I. But if I ask you… To say yes for my sake…?”  
Napoleon holds the immediate yes back. “That’d be unfair.” He says instead.  
“Maybe. But I know you want to stay and I know I want to make you.” Their hands move at the same time and fingers intertwine.  
Napoleon sighs. “Fine.” He wants to put his head on Illya’s shoulder really badly but knows it would hurt him. “I hate you,” he mumbles into his shoulder.  
“No, you don’t,” Illya replies softly and kisses his forehead.  
“No, I don’t.” Napoleon admits, no matter how much it scared him or how much he could feel Sanders breathe down his neck, he really, really doesn’t hate Illya Kuryakin. Tipping his head back he meets Illya’s gaze. “Annoying Russian,” he complains and moves closer.  
“Infuriating American,” is the reply before their lips meet in a soft kiss.

**fin**


End file.
